The Han Solo Adventures (12 page)

When the stars had parted before him and the ship was safely in hyperspace, Han sat for long minutes thinking that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d spaced without the Wookiee beside him. Rekkon had been right in arguing for escape, but that didn’t change Han’s feeling that he’d let Chewbacca down.

But regrets were a waste of time. Han stripped off his headset and shoved himself out of his seat. Rekkon was his only hope now. He headed for the forward compartment, the ship’s combination lounge-mess-rec area, and realized something was wrong while he was still in the passageway. There was the pungent smell of ozone, the smell of blaster fire.

“Rekkon!”

Han ran to where the scholar slumped over the gameboard. He’d been shot from behind, by a blaster set on needle-beam at low power. The sound of it probably hadn’t even carried across the compartment. On the gameboard, under Rekkon’s body, was a portable readout. Next to it a clear puddle of molten liquid bubbled, the remains of the data plaque. Rekkon was dead, of course; he’d been shot at close range.

Han leaned on a bulkhead pad, rubbing his eyes and wondering what to do next. Rekkon had been his sole hope for rescuing Chewbacca and for getting himself out of this insane jam. With Rekkon dead, the hard-won information gone, and at least one traitor-murderer onboard, Han felt alone for one of the few times in his life. His blaster was in his hand, but there was no one else in the compartment or in the passageway.

A clattering on the rungs of the main ladderwell. Han ran to it just as Torm came climbing up from the
Falcon
’s belly turret. As he came up, Torm found himself staring into the muzzle of Han’s gun.

“Just give over your pistol, Torm. Keep your right hand on the rung, and do it with your left, easy. Don’t make a mistake; it’d be your one and only.”

When he had the other man’s weapon, Han let him ascend, then made him shuck his tool belt. Patting him down and finding no other weapons, Han motioned for him to move into the lounge, then called up the ladderwell for Atuarre to come down from the ship’s top quad-mount.

He kept one eye on Torm, who was staring in shock at Rekkon’s body. “Where’s her cub?” he asked the man quietly.

The redhead shrugged. “Rekkon told Pakka to look around for a medi-pack. You weren’t the only one who was injured along the way. The cub went off to rummage around. I guess when you yelled for everyone to stay put and hang on, he did.” He looked back to Rekkon, as if he couldn’t fathom the fact of the man’s death. “Who did it, Solo? You?”

“No. And the list of possibilities is awfully short.” He heard Atuarre’s light tread on the rungs and covered her as she came down the ladderwell.

The Trianni’s features became a mask of feline hatred. “You dare point a weapon at me?”

“Gag it. Toss your gun out here, careful, then step out and drop the tool belt. Somebody’s killed Rekkon, and it could be you as easy as anyone. So don’t push me. I’m not telling you twice.”

Her eyes were wide now, the news of Rekkon’s death appearing to shock her out of her fury. But how can I tell if it’s real or an act? Han asked himself.

When he had them both in the forward compartment, he still found he couldn’t pick up anything but shock and dismay. Theirs, at least, served to prod him out of his own.

A clanking on the deckplates marked Bollux’s arrival from the cockpit. Han didn’t look around until he heard the urgency in the ’droid’s voice.

“Captain!”

Han whirled, dropping to one knee, blaster up. Beyond the cockpit offshoot from the passageway crouched the cub, Pakka, his small pistol held in one paw-hand, a medi-pack swinging from the other. He seemed to be wavering indecisively.

“He thinks you’re threatening me!” Atuarre rasped, moving toward her cub. Han swung his blaster to cover her and looked back to the cub. “Tell the kid to drop it and come to you, Atuarre. Do it!”

She did, and the cub, shifting his wide eyes between Han and his mother, obeyed.

Torm took the medi-pack from the cub and handed it to Han. Still covering his passengers, Han moved to an acceleration chair and opened the pack with his free hand. He held the nozzle of an irrigation bulb against his forehead injury, then wiped at it with a disinfectant pad.

Putting the medi-pack down, he took up the three confiscated weapons, put them aside, and confronted Torm, Atuarre, and Pakka. His mind ran in circles. How to tell who had done it? They’d each had a weapon, and time. Either Pakka had doubled back from his search, or one of the others had left his turret long enough to murder. Han almost regretted not having exchanged fire with the
Shannador’s Revenge
; at least he’d have known if either of the quad-mounts was untended.

Atuarre and Torm were trading suspicious looks now.

“Rekkon told me,” Torm was saying, “that he took you and the cub on against his better judgment.”

“Me?” she shrilled. “What about you?” She turned to Han. “Or, for that matter,
you
?”

That shook him. “Sister, I’m the one who got you out of there, remember? Besides, how could I lift off and shoot Rekkon at the same time? And anyway, Bollux was with me.” Han rummaged again in the medi-pack, dug out a patch of synth-flesh, and pressed it over his injury, his mind in a turmoil.

“That all could’ve been done by computer, Solo, or you could have killed him just before I came down,” Torm said. “And what good’s a ’droid for a witness? You’re the one pointing the blaster around, hotshot.”

Han, pushing the medi-pack aside, replied, “I’ll tell you what: you’re all, all three of you, going to keep an eye on one another, and I’m going to be the only one with a gun. If anybody has the wrong look on his face, it’s going to be all over for him. You’re all fair game, understand?”

Atuarre moved to the gameboard. “I’ll help you with Rekkon.”

“Keep your hands off him,” Torm shouted. “It was either you or that cub who killed him, maybe both.” The big redhead’s fists were balled. Both Atuarre and Pakka were showing their fangs.

Han cut them off with a wave of the blaster. “Everybody relax.
I’ll
take care of Rekkon; Bollux can help. The three of you move down to that cargo hold off the main passageway.” He stifled their objections with a motion of the gun’s muzzle. First Torm, then the two Trianii, began to move.

Han stood to one side as they filed into the empty hold. “If anybody sticks his face out of here without my say-so, I’ll figure he’s out to get me, and I’ll fry him. And if anybody’s hurt in here, I’ll space whoever is left, no questions asked.” He closed the hatch and left them.

In the forward compartment, Bollux waited silently, with Blue Max on a console nearby. Han regarded the corpse. “Well, Rekkon, you did your best, but it didn’t get you far, did it? And you dumped it into my lap. Now my partner’s captured and your murderer’s onboard with me. You weren’t a bad old man, but I somehow wish I’d never heard of you.”

Han picked up one heavy arm, dragging at the corpse. “Bollux, you get ready to take the other side; he was no lightweight.”

Then he noticed the scrawl. Han pushed Rekkon’s body back clumsily and bent to examine a stylus’s scribble on the gameboard that the dead man’s arm had hidden. The writing was difficult to read, dashed off in a pained, distorted hand, hastily and weakly. Han turned his head this way and that, puzzling the message out aloud: “Stars’ End, Mytus VII.” He knelt and quickly found Rekkon’s bloodstained stylus on the floor by the gameboard base. With his last strength, after he’d been left for dead, Rekkon had managed to leave word of what the computer plaque had told him. Dying, he hadn’t abandoned his campaign.

“Foolish,” Han told himself. “Who was he trying to tell?”

“You, Captain Solo,” Bollux answered automatically. Han turned on him in surprise.

“
What
?”

“Rekkon left the message for you, sir. The wound indicates that he was shot from behind, and therefore quite probably never saw his assailant. The only living entity he could trust would be you, Captain, and it would be logical to assume you would be present when his body was moved. He made sure in this manner that the information would reach you.”

Han stared down at the body for a long moment. “All right, you stubborn old man; you win.” He reached over, smearing and eradicating the words with his hand. “Bollux, you never saw this, understand? Play dumb.”

“Shall I erase that portion of my memory, sir?”

Han’s answer was slow as if he was catching the habit from the ’droid. “No. You may be the one who’ll have to pass it along if I don’t hack it. Make sure Blue Max keeps zipped, too.”

“Yes, Captain.” Bollux moved to take Rekkon’s other arm as Han prepared to hoist again. His joints creaked, and his servos whined. “This was a great man, was he not, Captain?”

Han strained under the corpse’s weight. “What d’you mean?”

“Just, sir, that he had a function, a purpose he cared about above and beyond his life. Doesn’t that indicate a greatness to the purpose?”

“You’ll have to read the obituaries, Bollux; all I can tell you is, he’s dead. And we’re going to have to eject him through the emergency lock; we might get boarded yet, and we can’t have him around.”

Without further conversation, the two dragged at Rekkon, who had reached out from beyond death and given Han the answers he needed.

Han opened the hatch. Atuarre, Pakka, and Torm looked up in unison. They’d taken seats on the bare deck, the man at the opposite side of the empty hold from the two Trianii.

“We had to ditch Rekkon,” Han told them. “Atuarre, I want you and Pakka to go square away the forward compartment. You can throw some eats into the warming unit, too. Torm, come with me; I need a hand repairing the damage we did on liftoff.”

Atuarre objected. “I am a Trianii Ranger, and a rated pilot, not a drudge. Besides, Solo-Captain, that man is a traitor.”

“Save it,” Han cut her off. “I’ve locked up all the other weapons in the ship, including Chewie’s other bowcaster. I’m the only one armed, and things stay that way until I figure out what to do with you all.”

She gave him a sullen look, telling him, “Solo-Captain, you’re a fool.” She left, with Pakka trailing behind.

Torm rose, but Han stopped him with an arm across the hatchway. The redhead retreated back into the hold and waited. “You’re the only one I can trust,” Han told him. “Bollux isn’t really much good, and I just figured out who killed Rekkon.”

“Which of them did it?”

“The cub, Pakka. He was in Authority custody, and they messed with him. That’s why he doesn’t talk. I think they brain-set him, then let Atuarre recover him. Rekkon wouldn’t have let any of you others near.”

Torm nodded grimly. Han produced the man’s pistol from the back of his gunbelt and handed it to him. Its charge indicator read full. “Keep this on you. I’m not sure Atuarre’s figured it out yet, but I’m willing to play them along and find out if either of them know anything that’ll help.”

Torm stashed the gun in his coverall pocket. “What will we do next?”

“Rekkon left a message as he was dying, scrawled it on the gameboard. The Authority’s keeping its special prisoners at something called Stars’ End, on Mytus VI. After we’ve checked the ship over, we’ll gather in the forward compartment and run down everything we’ve got in files and computers on it. Maybe Pakka or Atuarre will let something slip then.”

When the light damage suffered by the
Millennium Falcon
in her breakout from Orron III had been repaired insofar as was possible, the ship’s complement gathered in the forward compartment. Han had brought four portable readouts. He gave one to each of the others and took one himself. Bollux watched, seated to one side, with Max back in his usual place, gazing out from the ’droid’s chest.

“I patched these readouts into the ship’s computers,” Han explained. “Each of them’s keyed to one kind of information. I’ll pull navigational, Atuarre’s got planetological; Pakka can retrieve the Authority’s unclassified stuff, and Torm’s got operational files from the outlaw-techs. Okay, punch up Stars’ End and let’s get at it.”

Each of the other three complied. Torm’s screen, except for the retrieval request, remained blank. Atuarre’s too. She looked up, as they all did, to see Han scan his own readout.

“Your portables aren’t hooked up to anything,” he told them, “only mine. Atuarre, show Torm your screen.”

Dubious, she still did as he asked, turning her readout so that the redhead could see it. On her screen was the simple retrieval request, MYTUS VIII. “Yours too, Pakka,” Han bade the cub. That readout showed MYTUS V.

“Catch his face,” Han told the others, meaning Torm, who had become pallid. “You know what you’ve done, don’t you, Torm? Show everybody your readout. It says MYTUS VII, but I told you that Stars’ End was on MYTUS VI, just as I told the others the wrong planet. But you already knew the right one, because you read it over Rekkon’s shoulder before you killed him, right?” His voice lost its false lightness. “I said right,
traitor
?”

Torm jumped to his feet with impressive speed, gun drawn. Atuarre pulled hers out too, and pointed it at him. But neither Torm’s shot at Han nor Atuarre’s at him worked.

“Two malfunctions?” Han inquired innocently, unlimbering the blaster at his side. “I betcha mine works, Torm.”

Torm heaved his pistol wildly. Han reacted with a star pilot’s reflexes, slapping the gun out of midair with his left hand. But Torm had already whirled and seized the surprised Atuarre in a savage infighting hold, prepared to break her neck with a slight twist. When she started to resist, he forced her neck to the brink of fracture, making her subside.

“Put down the blaster, Solo,” he grated, “and get your hands on the gameboard, or I’ll—”

He was interrupted as Pakka, in a spectacular leap, landed on Torm’s shoulders, sinking fangs into his neck, clawing at his eyes, wrapping a supple tail around the traitor’s throat. Torm was forced to release his hold to keep from being blinded. Atuarre sought to turn and fight, and even Bollux had risen in the moment of crisis, unsure of just what to do.

Torm gave Atuarre a vicious kick. His superior weight and strength sent her sprawling, blocking Han, who had been moving for a clear shot. As Han skirted Atuarre, Torm tore Pakka from his shoulders and threw the cub aside just as Bollux blundered into the pilot’s path. Pakka bounced off one of the pads of safety cushioning lining the compartment hatch, as Torm dashed into the passageway.

Dodging, moving as quickly as he could, Torm raced past the cockpit, main ladderwell, and ramp hatch; none of them held any promise of even temporary safety. He heard Han’s bootsteps close behind and ducked into the first compartment he came to, damning himself for not having taken time to learn the ship’s layout. He hit the hatch-close button as he came through. The compartment was empty, offering no tools, nothing he might use as a weapon. He’d been hoping this was the escape-pod chamber, but fortune had passed him by. At least, he thought, he had a moment’s respite. He might be able to buy time, perhaps even wrest Solo’s blaster from him. His thoughts were moving so quickly that he didn’t realize, for a moment, where he was. But when he did, he threw himself back at the hatch through which he’d come, tearing at the controls, screaming obscenities.

“Don’t waste your time,” came Han’s voice over the intercom. “Nice of you to choose the emergency lock, Torm. It’s where you would’ve ended up anyway.”

Han stood looking through the viewport set in the lock’s inner hatch. He’d overridden the lock’s controls to make sure Torm couldn’t get back in. All the
Falcon
’s access systems had inboard overrides, to make life complicated for anyone interested in forced entry, a wise smuggler’s option.

Torm tried to wet his lips with a very dry tongue. “Solo, stop and think a minute.”

“Save your breath, Torm. You’re gonna need it all; you’re going swimming.” There were, of course, no spacesuits stored in the lock. Torm’s eyes opened wide with fear.

“Solo, no! I never had anything against you; I never would have come, except that bastard Rekkon and the Trianii never took their eyes off me. If I’d cut, they would have shot me. You can understand that, can’t you? I had to look out for number one, Solo!”

“So you shot Rekkon,” Han told him in a soft voice, no questioning to it.

“I had to! If he’d passed on word about Stars’ End, it would’ve been my neck! You don’t know these Authority people, Solo; they don’t accept failure. It was Rekkon or me.”

Atuarre came up behind Han, and Pakka and Bollux after her. The cub climbed up the ’droid’s shoulders for a better view. “But, Torm,” Atuarre said, “Rekkon found you, recruited you. Your father and brother really have disappeared.”

Without facing away from the viewport, Han added, “I’m sure they did. Your father and older brother, right, Torm? Let’s see, now, that wouldn’t by any chance make you heir to the Kail Ranges, would it?”

The traitor’s face was waxen. “Yes, if I did as the Authority asked. Solo, don’t play righteous with me! You said you’re a businessman, didn’t you? I can get all the money you want! You want your friend back? The Wookiee is on his way to Stars’ End by now; the only way you’ll ever see him again is by bargaining with me. The Authority’s got no grudge against you; you can name your price!”

Torm reasserted control over himself, going on more calmly. “These people keep their word, Solo. They don’t even know your names yet, any of you; I was operating under deep cover, saving the information I developed so I could up the price. Strike a deal. The Authority’s just good business people, like you and me. You can have the Wookiee back and go free with enough money to buy a new ship.”

He got no answer. Han’s gaze had gone to his own reflection in the metal of the emergency lock’s control panel. Torm pounded his fists on the inner hatch, a dull thudding.

“Solo, tell me what you want; I’ll get it for you, I swear! You’re a guy who looks out for number one, aren’t you?
Isn’t that what you are, Solo
?”

Han stared at his own lean reflection. In another man, he’d have said those eyes were too used to concealing everything but cynicism. His thoughts echoed Torm:
Is that what I am
? He looked back to Torm’s face, straining against the viewport.

“Ask Rekkon,” Han answered, and hit the lock release.

The outer latch snapped open. With an explosion of air into vacuum, Torm was hurled out into the chaotic pseudo-reality of hyperspace. Once outside the
Millennium Falcon
’s mantle of energy, the units of matter and patterns of form that had been Torm ceased to have any coherent meaning.